I wanted to write an article about how I find inspiration for my novels and stories.
But inspiration’s a mysterious, hard-to-bottle feeling; I can’t just write “5 tips to inspire yourself” because that’s like “5 tips to bottle the sunrise.” A single, bottled moment can’t contain the whole process, can’t hold all the reasons why black fades to sherbet-orange and honey-yellow.
Like, I once found inspiration for an an upper-YA novel from watching a movie aimed at 10-12-year-olds, and the movie really wasn’t that great.
But I once watched a tv show I’d call a brilliant masterpiece, and nope, no burning desire to write anything came to me then.
(How do I explain why one motivated me, and the other didn’t? Quite frankly, I can’t.)
The smell on my jacket one afternoon inspired me to think of a silly poem about ponds and wands.
But actually doing laundry has yet to give me poignant ideas.
Inspiration’s a strange feeling; impossible to fake or duplicate.
I can’t say why I feel inspired, but I do.
Some days the passion strikes fast and floods all my veins,
Other days I write just because I expect myself too.
So what inspires you?
–bonus silly pond poem–
My jacket smells like lawn.
I really am not fond.
I’ll dump it in a pond
then wash it with a frond.
I’ll find my special wand
then turn my magic on
and clean it fresh as dawn.